


What You Will

by stellahibernis



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: -Ish, Bad Coping Methods, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Love is complicated, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Steve has a lot of experience at rolling with punches, death does discriminate, finding the things that matter, timeline from WWII to post CW, war will get you down if you let it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellahibernis/pseuds/stellahibernis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In retrospect, Steve really had no idea what he signed up for</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Steve/Bucky is the main pairing and the endgame.
> 
> Follows the movie canon, kind of vague around CACW for obvious reasons (and after the movie most likely not canon compliant at that part, because I didn't need any more drama).
> 
> There's nothing that would warrant archive warnings but be prepared for the standard Captain America and HYDRA related things, including PTSD, depression, references to torture and brainwashing etc. Any specific warnings are in the notes before each chapter if necessary. Rating is due to sex not violence, so it's not all grim:D. I'll probably add to the tags when I get along.
> 
> The title of this not-Holiday fic was filched from _Twelfth Night._ The fic has nothing to do with the play, unless you count the fact it's hopefully going to be finished on that day. I just liked the phrase.
> 
> It's the season of giving, so I will try to post a chapter every day for all twelve days of Christmas. Hence it should be complete on Jan 5th. The posting schedule is the only thing making this a Holiday fic, it's kind of devoid of Holiday cheer, but don't worry, we'll end up in a happy place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is a stranger in his own body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for very brief mention of contemplating self-harm, not acting on it.

In retrospect, Steve had really had no idea what he signed up for.

Not that they had told him that much either, just hinted about what might happen, about the possibility. Not so much about the risks. It had been enough for him. Of course it had been enough. There it had been, his only chance to fight in the war. There had been no way he wasn’t going to take it.

It would have been a lie to say he wasn’t afraid. He was. Upper body stripped naked, strapped onto a platform and then enclosed in a metal box that looked too much like a coffin. A sarcophagus, like the ones he’d seen in a book about Ancient Egypt.

He didn’t want to show his fear, though, and he made a quip, lackluster as it was, heard Doctor Erskine laugh and braced for the pain hoping he hadn’t made the biggest mistake in his life. Hoping he wasn’t going to have to listen to a lecture on signing up on dubious science projects by Bucky. Hoping he’d get to hear Bucky’s voice, talking about anything, _anything at all_ , again.

It hurt like nothing had ever hurt him, and he’d known pain all his life. But he wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let them stop. It was the only way for him.

Then there was the blinding lightning, and then the darkness, broken by neon afterimages.

And then. _Then_ he could breathe, and he could see, and he could hear. He felt light and happy, and for a moment he thought it was the drugs, but they’d given him nothing that should affect him like that. In a second he realised that the pain that had been with him more or less all his life was gone, and he couldn’t believe the difference. The only thing he could think was, _Is this how others feel all the time?_ He could _breathe_. Deep and easy.

For a moment everything was perfect.

HYDRA took that moment from him, and afterwards it was all a confusing mess. No one knew what to do, how to adjust their plans when there was just him, not a whole platoon of men like him. They thought one man couldn’t make a difference, and he felt the reasoning was ultimately wrong, but had no words to express the feeling. Nor were there people willing to listen.

It didn’t take him long to realise that for all they fawned over him, most of the people didn’t care about him, not really. They cared about his new miraculous body, but not the man inside. They cared about Captain America, but not Steve Rogers. They wanted to touch him, to be seen with him, to hold him, to be held by him. They didn’t want to find out about his thoughts, his passions, the things about him that still were the same as ever, close enough anyway. They still didn’t matter.

Most of people were like that, but not everyone. There was Peggy who still looked at him in exactly the same way as before, but she couldn’t stay. The project was a failure and she moved on with her unit, to another front of the war, leaving Steve behind.

It was almost laughable to him how everything was different, how suddenly all the attention was on him. And yet, it was all the same as ever, because not many people cared for him, truly. For a long time after his mother’s passing that group of people had been just one person. He wrote to Bucky weekly, not knowing whether the letters even found their recipient, never getting anything back. It didn’t stop him from sending little things to go along; new warm socks and chocolate bars. He never told what he’d done, only that he had a job, to stop Bucky from worrying about money.

He agreed to work for the senator, and again he had no idea what it was he signed up for. The pretending, the performing. The ridiculous costume. But he adjusted, because it was what he had always done. Adjusted and pushed back against illnesses, against doubt, against ridicule.

Patience was never his strongest suit, but he had learned because he’d had to. It helped him now to handle the countless people that came to see him, that demanded a portion of his time. It was a new thing, something that never used to happen. Day after day he waited and observed; learned to handle the people, important and not, politicians and regular citizens. He learned to listen, to recognize when to push and when to bow out, even if it burned inside him. Nothing was that important anyway.

He learned to make the speeches, scripted though they were, but he begun to understand how to bring life to them, how to make people listen to him. He learned how to truly reach the audience with his words.

They told him every day that what they were doing was important, that they made a difference. They showed him countless statistics on bond sales, and it wasn’t even a lie, the sales went up. He kept telling it to himself day after day, kept telling it to the others. After a while it became easier to tell it to himself, to pretend he didn’t feel ridiculous, or that he didn’t want something else.

He fell into a routine, and even while he did so, there was still a stranger in the mirror looking into his eyes every time he shaved, every time they powdered him up so that his skin wouldn’t shine under the bright stage lights. Peggy had said he still had the same eyes, but he himself couldn’t see it. The color was different. All the colors were different.

It had sounded great, to be strong and healthy, and truth be told it _was_ great, to not have to worry about all the ailments that used to bother him, to see and hear properly. There were the things they had expected, like the increased appetite to accommodate his higher metabolism. He also knew he healed faster; things that used to bruise him didn’t leave a mark anymore, and the cuts that he’d got from crashing through the window while running after Erskine’s murderer had been gone the next day. Sometimes, after a tougher than usual days, he found himself contemplating how fast he healed, how long would it take for the signs to disappear if he took a knife and cut himself on the arm. When he caught himself thinking about it, he hastily pushed the thought away.

There were other changes too, ones that weren’t as obvious and that no one had bothered to talk to him about. Maybe they hadn’t known, maybe they hadn’t expected them. Maybe they hadn’t expected that literally everything about him would change.

The one that was strange and awkward and embarrassing was his newly found sex drive. He hadn’t had much of a one before, because his illnesses had taken most of his strength and determination. There had been the wistful, somewhat abstract desire for companionship, for closeness, and of course he had appreciated beauty and not just for the aesthetics. There was a way that Peggy smiled sometimes that always made his stomach feel hollow. He just hadn’t had energy and thus not much will either to do anything about it.

Now, though. Now he had energy to spare, for everything. The first morning after the procedure he woke up with an erection so hard it hurt. Later it made him feel thankful he’d been given his own room, the first time since basic, but at waking he didn’t think, just struggled out of his sleeping pants, grabbed a hold of himself and nearly laughed because well. It was another unexpected thing. He knew his hands were bigger (which meant he suddenly couldn’t draw and would have to learn all again), but apparently the relative size hadn’t really changed at all.

The thought disappeared as began to stroke himself, at first slow and steady, then speeding up the pace. He let himself just feel it, biting his lip to try and keep quiet, since he didn’t quite trust the soundproofing. He didn’t consciously focus on anything or anyone in particular, just let the pictures float in his mind, not even knowing whether they were real people or just his imagination. He did know that it was Peggy, the curve of her smile, the sway of her hips that he he saw in his mind’s eye when he spilled over his hand.

It was like that every morning for weeks, sometimes during the day as well. It felt like the smallest thing affected him. And it wasn’t that he always had to rely on his own hand either, because for the first time in his life there were more willing partners than he wanted. And, regardless of the fact that he often dreamt of Peggy, that he spent considerable time trying to get her likeness right on the pages of his sketchbook, he didn’t refuse the offers. Not all of them.

He was careful, never going with someone he worked with, and he knew some of the chorus girls were disappointed. He just didn’t give in, and after a while they seemed to accept it and he became one of the group; they talked to him same as each other, asked him to help both with their bags and the buttons of their costumes. He also avoided everyone that was married, and it was truly eye-opening how many offers he had to refuse based on that.

Still, there were plenty of single women willing to take a tumble with him, and they didn’t even seem to mind it when he at first had no idea what he was doing. They just took the lead and taught him. In the beginning they felt almost fragile under his newly strong hands, but he soon learned to get over it, even enjoy it. They seemed to enjoy it too, that he could support their whole weight in his arms, just pick them up while fucking them. There were back rooms, hotel rooms and the women’s homes. There were all kinds of women, tiny and big, light and dark, although he gravitated towards brunettes, and he knew exactly why.

And then, that one dangerous liaison in a dark back alley. There was a newly recruited GI with blue eyes and pretty mouth, and if Steve thought the man reminded him of someone he deliberately refused to think about it. The man went on his knees there in the dark and Steve saw stars when he came into his mouth, only to find out he was still hard (he knew he had a short refractory period but it was still ridiculous). The man just smirked at him and produced a jar of petroleum jelly. Steve came the second time buried deep inside him, biting his own arm to not cry out. The next day he was in another city.

After a while his sex drive lessened a bit, maybe he just got used to his new normal, and he started to wake up some mornings without an erection, or just going back to his room alone after the shows. Sometimes he still picked company, but it wasn’t the kind of maddening need that had driven him for the first weeks. It was good that it happened too, since it wasn’t long after that they left for Europe.

What didn’t change, even after weeks passing, was that he still felt like a stranger to himself, both inside and out. Every once in a while if he was preoccupied he forgot to duck or otherwise accommodate for his larger frame, but it was mostly just funny, sometimes annoying. That was the extent. The increased appetite (in every way) wasn’t really a problem either.

It was the way his thinking had changed that scared him. Sometimes he thought it was strange to even recognise the change, thinking was thinking, but apparently not so. He knew he’d always been reasonably good with patterns and logic, but now it was on a completely another level; he knew he looked at problems from different angles than he used to. There was also his much sharper memory. The girls though it was funny to have him read from a book and then recite it back without looking, but privately it did freak him out.

It was a proof that everything, truly everything about him had changed, and he often stayed awake at night wondering what was left, if he even was himself anymore. Or more precisely, what exactly was this new him like and how different he was from Steve of old. He couldn’t tell, and his newly sharp memory was tricky about it as well. He remembered things better, it was true, but everything that happened before serum was less clear, almost like memories from a dream, and thus he was less certain about them.

He kept writing Bucky letters, even if he never got anything back, which didn’t really surprise him since he was on the tour. He wondered if he even wanted those letters; what if in them Bucky would say he didn’t sound like himself anymore. He didn’t think he could handle it.

And yet, he did yearn for a letter, because then he would have known that Bucky was alright, and the cold fear that had made a permanent home in the pit of his stomach might have been less sharp for a while.

 


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all family is of blood, and sometimes people steal their way into ones heart without being truly noticed. Maybe not before there's a threat of losing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referencing canonical background character death in this chapter.

Steve remembered the precise moment he realised his mother was going to die clear as day. It had been a day like most others, and there hadn’t been any dramatic shift in her condition. Her illness had dragged her away gradually, in such little increments he couldn’t tell a difference between any consecutive days, but when he looked back a month, the change was clear. She had gotten out of bed, insisted on doing chores and getting ready for work. Sun was warming the apartment and she even seemed to feel a little better than the day before. And Steve had just known.

He had denied it, told himself to not think about it, that it was a betrayal. Betrayal of what, he wasn’t quite sure, but still it had been imperative that he not think about it. It changed nothing, he still _knew_. Knew it wasn’t going to get better. Months later he had stood by a grave after everyone else had gone, and he’d felt a devastation that was black and endless. He’d realised then that he had gotten a taste of it on that sunny day months earlier, and that maybe he should have heeded the warning.

Not that there had been anything he could have done.

Bucky had finally come and led him away, and that was the first time he had consciously thought about how Bucky also was his family. He’d always before thought it was just him and his mother, but it had become a lie at some point years earlier. He had known it too, just not really formed the thought in his head. That day in midst of the loss he’d thought would be the hardest he’d ever have to endure, in midst of the black despair there had been a light, a presence.

Bucky had made a promise then, and handed Steve his key as if it was a talisman even if it didn’t really mean anything since the only place it would take him was the tiny apartment empty of his mother. But it had meant everything. It had meant that there was still someone who cared about him.

It was an all too familiar feeling, the way the cold fear he’d lived with for months had started to grow as soon as Peggy mentioned the 107th, and when Colonel Phillips confirmed Bucky was most likely dead it was the same as on that sunny day, same as that gray day at the cemetery. The black despair.

He hadn’t expected this to happen when he’d first told Bucky his name, after a fight that had probably happened over something trivial. Only the consequences weren’t trivial, since it had brought Bucky into his life. He’d made a friend, but hadn’t thought they’d become each other’s family in the future, hadn’t thought that one day he’d have to hurt like this again.

This time he wasn’t going to let go without a fight.

It was the first kindling of this particular fire, and no matter what people said about it being hopeless he didn’t care. It was the only thing he could do. With Peggy pleading for him to see the reason, and then stepping up to help him he realised that again on the darkest of his days he had someone supporting him, someone helping him. He thought the world of her, had dreamt about her, had probably fallen a little bit in love with her the moment he first saw her, and only more every day after that. Despite all of this she wouldn’t be able to keep him from going. Bucky was his family, the most important person in his life, and he might have not know where it would lead when they first became friends, but he would see this road to the end.

Against all odds it wasn’t the end.

It should have overwhelmed him, the amount of HYDRA soldiers and their advanced weapons that he faced, but it didn’t. He just methodically cut his way through their ranks, through the facility until he found the prisoners, and after setting them free continued until he made it to the laboratories. Months and years later he’d regret he didn’t go after Zola that night; it wouldn’t have taken him much time at all to stop the man, but like all decisions it was easy to second guess give additional information.

Steve found Bucky, heard his voice at first, and his world zeroed on it. Nothing else existed or mattered. There were no obvious injuries that he could see when he broke the bindings, but Bucky was out of it, his eyes looking out somewhere Steve couldn’t see. He wasn’t even sure if Bucky heard what he said.

And then Bucky’s eyes focused on him and he called Steve by name, undeniably recognizing him. At that moment a wave of relief hit Steve, and his knees almost gave out. For weeks and months he’d wondered if he even was himself anymore, but now he knew he was. Bucky knew him inside out, better than anyone ever had including his mother, and if he recognized him even being so out of it and despite all the changes, it was good enough for Steve.

They made it out despite running into Red Skull and the fire and having to jump over the chasm, which he had no idea if he even could do beforehand. He just did it, because it was the only way to make sure they got to safety. They made it out and ran to safety while the factory burned, and Steve didn’t know how Bucky managed to keep up after being mostly unable to walk only a few minutes earlier. Adrenaline was a miraculous thing.

The trek back was remarkably uneventful, as was the return. They were just debriefed, no one was disciplined. But Steve did notice the change in the air, knew that he now had his foot inside the door and if only he played his cards right he’d get to do more than play a mascot. So that’s what he did. All the experience in handling people on the spangle circuit came in handy.

It was more difficult later in the evening when he finally managed to find Bucky almost out of sight at the edge of the camp. Even in the gathering dark he could tell there were shadows under Bucky’s eyes that looked into distance, and it made Steve wonder what had happened to him, as he had almost every minute since finding him strapped on that table. He really shouldn’t have been surprised that the discussion went as it did, that both their stubborn sides came out.

He did get that lecture about agreeing for an experimental procedure without even really knowing what would happen or the risks, and while that exasperated Steve, it didn’t really get under his skin. It was what he had expected, and irrelevant anyway, since nothing bad had happened to him. However, what did aggravate him was when Bucky said he should have stayed home and been safe, that it was what Bucky had wanted. That was when Steve got angry.

“And if I had, you’d still be on that table and we’d both be worse for it. Also that’s really hypocritical of you, do you think I don’t want that for you too? For you to be safe? But I don’t ask, and I’m not going to live my life the way you dictate. I can’t.”

Bucky got angry as well, glared at Steve like he’d used to so often, but the difference this time was that he punched Steve, and got him fairly well on the cheek, since Steve wasn’t expecting it at all. It had never happened before, regardless of how angry Bucky had been at him. Steve wasn’t even sure what it was that set Bucky off now, he’d said a lot worse things before, he was willing to admit. They stared at each other for a second before Bucky stormed away and Steve returned to his tent. In the morning there was no sign on his face, but things between him and Bucky were strained, and they barely spoke on the way to London.

The not speaking bothered Steve, because he didn’t know how to fix it. Their arguments had never lasted long, usually one of them realised they were wrong and apologized, or if it had been over some trivial thing they soon just acted like nothing at all had happened. This time there was no way out of it, since he wasn’t going to take back his words, and Bucky didn’t seem keen on reconciling. It made his days strangely quiet, now that Bucky was there but they didn’t connect like they always had. On the other hand he was busy, since he was indeed going to the field, which meant preparing, strategy meetings and more preparing again. His days were full trying to maneuver things so that he’d have the best possible starting point. One thing he was adamant was picking his own team; he didn’t want one made out of ostensibly the best individuals, where the clashing of egos would have been all but certain. He needed a core group that he knew could work together, and he knew exactly who he wanted to ask.

He got his team, but there was one final member he needed to ask, and maybe it made him a hypocrite, since he wasn’t about to just watch Bucky return home to safety, not without asking. Steve tried not to expect anything either, and for the first time ever he was truly unsure of what Bucky’s answer would be. That was why he made the question light, self-mocking, and he knew Bucky could hear the strain in his voice, after all it was the first time they talked beyond absolute necessities since the fight. Although in lot of ways to Steve this was also a necessity.

It was a second time in a very short period that Bucky made him feel an overwhelming relief, saying he would come; not for war, not for Captain America, but for him. Steve.

Later when he’d look back to the evening at the bar, there were many things that were important and should have stood out; the team coming together, Bucky making the promise, Peggy in that red dress. Yet, it was something that in grand scale of events could have been, maybe even should have been, the least significant thing, that actually stuck to Steve’s head.

It wasn’t the teasing tone, or the words themselves, “But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”  They did reinforce in Steve something he had already been thinking, that he could expand on the role of Captain America, keep it going but transform it into something real and meaningful. Something inspiring. He’d thought he was maybe too full of it, that it would be taking things too far, but Bucky’s words made him decide. He knew that Bucky didn’t really care about the Captain America persona for all the complicated reasons on a personal level, but he was smart enough to see the potential, same as Steve. And since Bucky despite his personal feelings indicated it was a good idea, Steve believed he was right. Thus history was made.

It was something else, though, something more personal that kept Steve thinking back in the coming months. It was the way Bucky had looked at him then, just for a second. Appraising, challenging. Steve had flashed hot under that gaze, and thanked his stars the bar was dim, so it was difficult to see him blush. In some other instance, with someone else he probably would have been embarrassed, looked away, but this was Bucky, and he didn’t. There was something else he wanted to say, besides the equally playful agreement about his costume, but he didn’t get the chance. Not just then.

He did keep the outfit, if not exactly the same clothes, but the idea. When he pulled it on the first time, it felt right in a way the stage costume never had. There was a purpose in it, and it felt like a part of him, not just something he’d put on. The new shield immediately suggested to him that it could be used for other things besides just hiding behind it and hitting things with it. He found himself a half destroyed factory and just let loose, played with it until he started to see the angles.

He’d just managed to catch the shield for the first time after three consecutive bounces, when he sensed a presence behind him and turned to see Bucky leaning at the wall. He had his new blue jacket draped over one shoulder and a rifle hanging from the other. “Think that’ll be useful?” he asked when Steve saw him.

“I don’t know. Guess we’ll see. Thought you’d appreciate it, being all for distance weapons.”

Bucky hummed noncommittally, and Steve noted there were still dark shadows under his eyes, but his stance was easier, more open. Bucky then said, “I still have to do a double take when seeing you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Steve admitted, and he was admitting everything, how he felt different outside and in, still a stranger in his own skin. Not in so many words, but he didn’t have to, Bucky still understood.

Bucky smiled, which was a rare occurrence those days. “Don’t worry, you’re still the same idiot.”

Steve believed him. He always had.


	3. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is little place for idealism in the war.

When Steve was growing up, whenever war was talked about it was always framed with the same concepts. Heroism. Patriotism. Duty. Bravery. He’d heard time and time again that his father who died in the war was a hero. That the men who had served did their duty.

Later, when he was an adult, trying to get by, trying to stay alive with all his ailments, war again loomed in the horizon, and young men were encouraged to enlist. Drafts were held. The same words were spoken again, the same words stared at him on the posters. Heroism. Patriotism. Duty. Bravery. And there was another word. Glory. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but it was there beyond everything, tempting them.

Glory wasn’t why Steve had wanted to enlist, the word that resonated with him the most was duty. And the simple thing that somehow was difficult to explain; that it was the right thing to do. He believed it was a war that needed to be fought, needed to be won, and he had wanted to do his part. Only most people believed his part was something other than he wanted it to be.

He knew Bucky always thought he was too much of an idealist, but Steve had never succumbed into believing the war propaganda. He’d seen too much. He knew there was a terrible side to war, even if people didn’t talk about it. When he was young, they’d had several neighbors that had fought in the war, and he’d sometimes heard screaming nightmares through the walls, seen the paranoia and skittishness, the permanent injuries. Her mother had explained it to him, that it was because of the war, because of what they’d seen and experienced. Steve knew from a very young age the kinds of things that happened to people in war, even if the men never spoke about them. They too spoke of duty and patriotism, and it was only because Steve had been looking that he’d seen the bitter slant of their mouths, their haunted eyes.

Because of all this, when he was trying to enlist he thought he knew what he was getting into, but he hadn’t. It was his first true touch of war, even before he had ever been in a combat that told him that. The chance for loss, the terrible feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing. They had been with him for along time, but it was only on that rainy day at the basecamp that they truly hit him.

Being in battle changes a person, and it was after he was back from Austria, even with all the success he’d had, that Steve finally understood the haunted stares and nightmares from his childhood. The first night at the relative safety of the camp he woke up in cold sweat, trembling all over, still hearing the shouts of pain, seeing the orange fire and blue flashes of the HYDRA weapons, tasting the ash and metallic electricity in the air. He nearly threw up, and knew he wasn’t going to sleep any more that night. Afterwards there would be many sleepless nights, except for when he was too exhausted for anything but falling into bed or ground, in that condition it didn’t really matter which.

He could tell, even when Bucky at first avoided him, that he too suffered from nightmares, and it wasn’t at all a surprise, considering what he’d gone through. Steve knew from the start that his friend had changed, perhaps just as much as he himself had, but it didn’t matter. Bucky was still Bucky to him, and he’d learn to know this new layer of him. Later when they were again as close as ever, and in some ways even more so, they never really talked about the nightmares; the reasons why Steve sometimes found Bucky staring into distance and was extremely reluctant to let anyone treat his wounds. Luckily Bucky never got badly wounded, and what smaller scrapes he got never troubled him long. Steve worried still, he’d seen how even small wounds with poor treatment could result into a lost limb or worse in the conditions of the war.

All of this he could adjust into, could deal with the changes, the nightmares. They weren’t the most significant thing, they weren’t what made him question himself and what he was becoming, what they all were becoming.

It was a war that needed to be won, and after Steve saw Red Skull he knew it all the more clearly. But from that moment he also started understanding that regardless of how righteous the cause, one still had to do terrible things to win. No one would come out clean. Sometimes he wished that he was just a foot soldier, one of the masses that wouldn’t have to make the terrible decisions. It would still be bad, but maybe it would be easier to believe, the words he’d always associated with war. In his position there was too much evidence to the contrary. And yet, every time the thought came into his head, he pushed it away. He didn’t want to not know, he didn’t want to pretend. He wanted to do the job the best he could, and deal with the consequences, because someone had to. Many of them had to.

There was always the thinking that end justified the means, but there were days when it was hard to believe, when it felt like an excuse. And really, it  _ was _ an excuse. It was also the truth, that they fought for the freedom for everyone. It meant they kept going, even when sometimes it was almost unbearable.

There were moments and decisions he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. Moments where they left people behind. Moments where they chose to not help people that deserved to be helped, because it would have made their mission impossible to complete. There were moments where he had to make a choice to take the lives of enemies that might have surrendered if given a chance, because they couldn’t take prisoners, and couldn’t risk being exposed. Countless times when he had to make the hard choice, knowing he would regret it, knowing he’d still make the same choice over again if he had to.

Fighting a war became a compromise, letting go of his lofty ideals because they wouldn’t take him where he neede to go, and yet trying to remember to be kind, to remember what his mother had taught him to be, so that he’d never be intoxicated with power enough to start thinking that just because he could do a lot of things, they were his right. That’s why Steve and his group stopped to help people whenever they could, were they civilians or fellow soldiers. It was why they volunteered for difficult missions, so that others would be spared.

Steve was grateful every day that he’d got to pick his own team, because through all the strain and horror it held together, the core group was strong as the vibranium of his shield. It was difficult for all of them individually on occasion, but they helped each other through, and it was a true camaraderie that grew between them. They were in a way a lot less ruled by custom and chain of command than many other units, but it was because they didn’t need to be. They respected each other enough that everyone fell into their own place.

They dragged each other through hell, and every step of the way Bucky was there with Steve, supporting, talking strategy, being their most reliable scout and sniper, and just being  _ there _ , knowing when Steve needed pushing, and when he needed to be left alone. Sometimes Steve felt he wasn’t quite as good a support to Bucky, that there now were depths he couldn’t reach. Things that Bucky wasn’t willing to share with him. It was a new feeling, and Steve admitted himself that it hurt, but he also pushed it away. Bucky needed space and he was going to give it to him.

After missions they ended up in some bar or another, and their group was often the loudest and most boisterous. It was worse when they were quiet, just drinking round after round, trying to drown out the noise in their heads. Steve hoped it worked for them. He’d found out soon after the serum that alcohol no longer affected him, and he’d stopped even trying. He had to find other ways to deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should just accept that everything I write is going to be way longer than I intended. With this one I thought the chapters would be something like thousand words a piece. In reality? This is the shortest I have and it's 1300+ words. The next one will be something like 3300 words...


	4. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the unreality of war, maybe it's possible to have everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning that rating here.

It was one Steve’s treasured moments, one that he kept recalling when things got tough. Peggy walking into the bar in that red dress, looking in a way more beautiful than ever, deliberately calling attention to herself. It was another step towards falling in love with her.

Afterwards, with everything that happened the next day, she was angry at him, and he didn’t blame her at all for it. It made their relations a bit stiff for a while, but they did the work the best they could, didn’t let the personal schism interfere. It was an aspect of Peggy that he liked, how driven she was, idealist in a way that was very similar to himself. They worked together, planned operations, did their own parts for the common goal. It was easier, discussing the strategy, interacting with her on that front than when it was more social, maybe one of the gatherings for the officers. 

They were back in London a few months after the team was first formed. They’d been reasonably successful so far, and Steve felt the command truly began to trust them to be useful. He’d also shed most of the idealistic expectations he’d had of war, and the planning for the next mission served to remind him that there was always a compromise that needed to be made. They discussed it over the maps and reports for hours, but couldn’t get past the inevitable truth. Executing the mission would end up with casualties, there was no way avoiding it. It made the expressions around the table grim, and the goodbyes at the end of the day were subdued. 

Steve and Peggy were the last ones to leave. He half expected things to get awkward again when they were alone, but he was wrong. Peggy just sighed and said she needed a drink. Steve offered to take her to a bar, but she declined saying she had a bottle stashed in her room, which didn’t really surprise him. He escorted her back to her quarters, and at the door before he could say good night she told him to come in, almost more a command than a request. Of course he didn’t say no.

They had drinks and talked about everything but the mission and Peggy smiled at him and it wasn’t awkward at all. He felt relaxed, drawn to her and lightheaded, as if the alcohol suddenly had begun to affect him again. They emptied their glasses, and her fingers brushed against his when she took it from him. The air felt charged, and he knew it might be a mistake, assuming too much, since he knew he still wasn’t too adept at reading romantic cues, even if much better than he had been just a year earlier. Still, he decided to risk it. He grabbed her hand, lightly, so that if she had wanted to pull away she would have been able to, but she didn’t. Instead she tightened the hold and pulled him close to her. 

The kiss started soft, maybe even hesitant. Peggy’s lips were full against his, and there was a light scent of something floral about her that he’d never noticed until now that he was this close to her. After a moment he pulled away a bit and just looked at her. Peggy kept her eyes closed a bit longer, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, lipstick smudged. It was the last detail that really struck Steve; he’d never seen her with anything less than perfect make-up, even at the end of the day. It was what made everything even more intimate.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, slow and easy, still trying not to expect too much of her. He wasn’t sure how far she’d let it go, but it didn’t matter. In a way it was already more than he’d expected to get. He pressed his lips against hers again, brought his hand to her jaw and pressed gently, coaxed her mouth open. Her hands found their way up his back, and clutched his hair when he slid his tongue between her lips. He felt her trembling under his hands, but she also pressed closer, and it suddenly occurred to him that he might well be the more experienced one out of the two of them. 

He kept kissing Peggy, running his hands down her back, over her hips, but not escalating. It had been a while since he’d been with anyone, not since he abandoned the tour, and his body reacted to her, more than he really wanted it to. He knew she would soon be able to feel his arousal, but he didn’t have time to worry about it before she pulled back a bit and then pushed him backwards to sit on her bed. She followed by climbing on his lap and kissing him again while her hands found their way to his shirt buttons.

That was when Steve let himself believe he could have this, that she wanted him enough that he didn’t have to worry, didn’t have to hold back. He let his hand slide under her shirt, felt the smooth, almost too hot skin and the muscles moving underneath. Before he’d sometimes thought women felt fragile under his hands, so much so he’d been almost afraid to touch them, but Peggy was different. She had always seemed enormous to him, her presence so great that it would have felt silly to think her fragile.

He set working on the buttons of her shirt and kept kissing her just because he could. He felt he could have kept doing it forever; could have just stayed in the room and kissed Peggy. There was a part of him that seriously wished it. He pushed Peggy’s shirt off her shoulders and shed his own while she worked her arms free. He trailed his lips down her throat, kissed and licked his way along. When he mouthed her skin just at the edge of her slip she shuddered and let out a sigh that sounded like she was trying to keep the noise down. He smiled against her skin, keenly aware that more than ever before he was conscious of her instead of just how he himself was feeling, wanting more than anything else to make her feel good. 

He opened the buttons of her skirt and she got back to her feet to let it drop to floor and then pulled her slip over her head as well. He got rid of his undershirt and then pulled her close again, desperate to feel her skin on his. When he unhooked her brassiere she shivered almost violently, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her nails dug into his back and it didn’t hurt, just made a pleasant buzz go through his head. He pushed her down on the bed and bent his head to catch her nipple in his mouth and then she finally let out a moan, not loud but no longer suppressed.

He kept kissing her; her breasts, her throat, her stomach, and all the while her hands dug into his skin and grabbed his hair, pulled him close, encouraging. He let his hands travel down her sides, over hips and down her thigh, then back up again pushing her girdle up. Her garters had come loose, and he soon was able to wrap his fingers at the waist of her panties. He noticed her hands stilled when he started pulling her panties down, but she didn’t stop him, and he dropped them down on the floor and kept kissing his way down, on top of her hip bone and then her thigh. He moved his lips inwards while opening her legs, shifting so that he was between them. He was aware of how tight his pants have gotten, but it was secondary for now; it was her breaths, the little noises she made that filled his head. 

He dipped his head to nose the curly hair between her legs. He licked between the folds, slow and long, and she let out a half cry, half sob and gripped his hair tighter. He grabbed a hold of her hips to steady her and then tasted her again. She was wet already, and he licked her again and then sucked a bit. He had to hold her hips tighter against her writhing. He kept licking and sucking her, pushed his tongue inside her and listened to her breaths becoming ragged, mixed with low moans. His erection was almost painful, straining his pants, but he ignored it and kept going until she pulled his hair more forceful, clearly indicating he should stop. Here eyes were glassy and her hair a glorious mess on the pillow, and she only barely managed to speak. “Steve,” she breathed and it was the most beautiful sound, to hear her speak his name when he had made her come undone like this. “Please, I need.”

She couldn’t find the words but tugged him up, and slipped her hands down to open his pants. Even over fabric her touch nearly made him see stars, and he buried his face at the crook of her neck, smelling the mix of her perfume and skin. She got the fastenings undone and pushed both his slacks and underpants down, and he paused only to fish out the condom from his pocket before shedding them off completely.

He rolled the condom on and then let her pull him close again, pausing to hover over her. Her eyes were a bit clearer now, full of trust when she said, “I’ve never actually done this. But. I want you to.”

He dipped his head down to kiss her and ran his hand over her shoulder and down, brushing her nipple while he lined up between her legs. She lifted her knees, and he pushed inside her, slowly and gently, feeling a bit of resistance and then easily seating himself. She let out a cry that was mix of mostly pleasure and a little bit of pain, and he paused to let her breathe. She wrapped her legs behind his back and told, “Move,” and he did as she commanded.

He set a steady pace, and then just let himself be lost in sensation. There were her hitched breaths and moans mixed with his own, her hands digging at his back, legs clasped around his hips, and her wet warmth around him, slick and welcoming. He kissed her again and then picked up speed, aware of her breathing becoming more ragged and then a cry and the roll of her hips, her sudden tightening around him and it only took a few more thrusts to set him over the edge. 

For a moment he lay there, almost collapsed over her, listening her breathing become even again, and feeling her hands still on his back, now running gently over his skin. Then he pulled away, took the condom off and gathered her on top of him. They fell asleep like that.

Afterwards everything was different, how could it not be, but not in a bad way. It was never awkward, nor did it affect their work. It actually made things less complicated, more settled. They didn’t have sex often even when they were at the same place; Steve knew Peggy had many hurdles in her way, and getting involved with him would just create more. They were careful and kept quiet, although Steve was reasonably sure there were some people that knew, Stark for example, but they didn’t seem to care. Bucky of course knew, like he knew pretty much everything about Steve. The next day he’d caught Steve at lunch and hadn’t said anything, just elbowed him on the side and waggled his eyebrows, and Steve had felt the tips of his ears heat up. That had been it, and after they’d gone to train and talk the mission that was still terrible, and nothing had been different between them.

The moments he and Peggy got together were rare, and he relished each time they were able to lock the door behind them. Sometimes they were both driven by need and it was fast and sloppy, sometimes they took their time. Steve loved to find new places on her body that made her breath hitch in a particular way, loved how she fast became as certain and assertive behind closed doors as she was about her job. Didn’t matter what they did, whether she told him exactly what she wanted or pushed him down on the bed and took him into her mouth.

His favorite moments were when they had enough time to actually sleep together afterwards, to settle and cool down without hurry, to relax and listen to her breathing.

Often the war seemed detached from the real world to Steve, especially since he still hadn’t gotten used to his new body, not really. Sometimes it all felt like it was something other than reality, a dream maybe. He just couldn’t quite decide whether it was a nightmare or not. Because the terrible things they saw and experienced were such that he never could have imagined them, never would have believed people to be capable of inflicting such horror. The HYDRA guns felt like they were from one of the cheap scifi-novels Bucky liked to read, not something that would actually make their way into war.

And in addition to the horror story, there was also the perfect fantasy that wasn’t any easier to believe. He was healthy and strong, just as he had wanted. People looked at him like they believed he was capable of anything, there was respect in their eyes instead of doubt and derision. And there was love. There was Peggy, who herself was adept at anything she wanted to accomplish it seemed. Peggy, who could have had anyone and chose him. He was the one who got to touch her, to kiss her. The one invited close to her in every way, close to her body and her heart. 

There was his team, and the purpose to fulfill, something they all shared. He got to shoulder the responsibility, and got to do it with his best friend, the only person that had seen every aspect of him from despair to elation and stayed with him through it all. It hardly felt like something like that should be possible.

And because it all felt like a fantasy, it was easier to just live in the moment, to not map out the future, to not think about the consequences. Everything was better than he’d ever believed possible, everything was worse, and because of this moments became the only thing that meant anything.

It was a mission during which their team had divided in two groups; Steve and Bucky taking one part and the rest of them another. It was late fall, and the smell of snow had been in the air for days. They’d managed to retrieve the information that was needed and were on the way back when the snow began to fall. Soon it was apparent it was going to be a storm and they’d need to find shelter. They’d almost resigned themselves to having to build one as best they could and spend a completely miserable time waiting the storm to pass, when they happened upon a small cottage. It was clearly not anyone’s home, probably built as a hunting cottage, but the window shutters were intact, the door closed and the chimney was clear. There was a pile of firewood stacked against the wall outside and cans of food, clearly emergency rations, in one corner.

The storm lasted three days and they spent it in reasonable security, since it was unlikely for anyone to be moving around, and they were even able to radio their allies that they were safe, just waiting for the weather to clear.

Waiting was something Steve still detested; it made him jittery to not be able to do anything. There were only so many hours two people could pass playing cards and checking and maintaining their equipment. At the end of second day Bucky suggested Steve should stop cleaning his shield since it was so shiny it could be seen miles away and they were still pretty much in enemy territory. Steve had laughed then, and it had affected Bucky, and soon they were both howling with laughter, not really knowing why, but it felt good. Maybe it was just for being alive and relatively safe.

They then opened the bottle that had been in the solitary cupboard, and that they’d been saving. It was some kind of liquor neither one of them had ever had, not particularly good but they passed the bottle between them, and talked about everything but the war. 

Maybe it was because the firelit cottage felt like another bubble detached from reality. Maybe it was the boredom and closeness and the alcohol that didn’t affect Steve anyway. Maybe it was because it was Bucky, and they’d been close to each other nearly all their lives. Maybe it was inevitable.

He wasn’t sure which one of them initiated the kiss, but it happened, the near empty bottle forgotten on the floor. It wasn’t soft and sweet, nor was it hesitant, but rough and hard and driven with need Steve hadn’t even known was there. There was no finesse, just rush when they got rid of their clothes and mashed their lips together again. Bucky pushed his tongue between his lips and Steve opened his mouth, let Bucky in while running his hands all over Bucky, trying to touch every bit of skin he could reach. Bucky tasted like bad cigarettes from their rations and the alcohol they’d been drinking. He was too thin, Steve could feel his ribs but there was also the wiry strength that had surprised many people, both in the back alleys of Brooklyn and the forests of Europe. 

Bucky pushed Steve down on his back and lay on top of him, never stopping the kiss. Steve groaned aloud when their erections slid against each other; it was a new sensation to him. That one back alley experience never got that intimate. He let his legs fall open and for a while they just moved together, rubbing against each other, kissing until they were both breathless. Then there was the need for just more, so Steve reached between them and took both of them in his hand and began to stroke. Bucky held himself up enough to give him space, dropped his head on Steve’s shoulder, breathing hard and ragged but not loud otherwise. Bucky ended up coming first, finally moaning out loud when he spilled over Steve’s hand and Steve followed right after. Afterwards he pulled Bucky back close to him, lying on top of him, and then reached for a blanket to cover them. They fell asleep like that.

Steve woke up when Bucky rolled himself off him, both their skins still sticky. He’d slept better than he remembered having done in ages, and it had been naked on the floor. They cleaned themselves up in silence, but it was not awkward at all, just normal. They got dressed, packed their things and shared the last bit of the liquor for the road. The storm had cleared away and the sky was deep blue.

They didn’t talk about what had happened, never did even later. It didn’t sit between them either, and Steve just let things happen the way they unfolded. They made their way safely to their allies and then to headquarters with the information. After debriefing Steve found himself in Peggy’s room again, kissing her, happy to be lost in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently besides being the "Steve is in way over his head" -fic, this is also the "Steve has quite a lot of sex" -fic. Of course, most of it is at least somewhat complicated, so I guess it's just the two mashed together. Sorry that your life is tough Steve. How does one apologize to fictional characters anyway, by writing them happy?


	5. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two kinds of fire; one generated by having everything and the other by losing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of canonical character non-death x2 in this one.

“I want you inside me,” Steve said, and Bucky stilled completely, hands still on his skin, two warm points of contact, lips a fraction of an inch from Steve’s.

They were in the outskirts of Paris, waiting for the final details for their mission to hopefully capture Arnim Zola. The rest of the team was probably still in the bar where Steve and Bucky had left them when they’d headed back to their quarters. They hadn’t planned ending up both in Steve’s room, it had just happened, same as it always did. They never planned for sex (with each other anyway) and they never talked about it, not before, not after, not during. Steve had carefully decided to not even think about it, to not think about the consequences or possibilities. Maybe it was because of the not talking that it hadn’t become a problem for them so far. They just lived, not like it hadn’t happened at all, or that it was meaningless, but like they’d both decided it didn’t have to change anything, and so it hadn’t. Steve had been dimly aware that it couldn’t last forever, but had decided not to worry about that either.

But now he had spoken up and it was as if a spell was broken, suddenly what they were doing had become reality, and he truly didn’t know if Bucky was prepared for it. It was easy to touch, kiss, use hands and mouth to get each other off but this was different. Now he’d made a request, and was staring at a very real possibility of being denied.

He needn’t have worried, because in a second Bucky blinked and his eyes darkened, pupils blown up. Then Bucky kissed him and it was one full of promise, heated but strangely gentle at the same time. 

If Steve had had capacity for anything else than just feeling, he probably would have wondered where Bucky had gotten his experience, because he clearly knew what to do. Bucky guided him to roll over on his hands and knees and prepped him with slicked fingers. It was a sensation unlike anything Steve had ever experienced. He dropped down on his elbows and leaned his forehead on his arms, concentrating on Bucky’s hands on him, in him. 

Suddenly Bucky’s fingers were gone and Steve rose back up, letting out a protesting groan. Then Bucky was behind him again, hands on his hips and bending over to kiss him between the shoulderblades. “Ready?” he whispered, and Steve just nodded, shifted his knees further apart. Bucky pushed inside, slow and steady, and it didn’t exactly hurt, even if the stretch was something Steve hadn’t expected. Bucky stilled, running his hands along Steve’s sides, and Steve let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. Then Bucky moved, and Steve exploded with the feeling. It was like every nerve-ending in his body was concentrated on only where Bucky was touching him, gripping his hips with his hands, filling him up. Steve was dimly aware that he was loud, moaning without a check, his erection stiff between his legs.

Bucky pulled out after a while, and before Steve had gathered enough braincells to protest he’d been rolled on his back, and Bucky hovered over him. “I want to see you,” Bucky breathed and then kissed him at the same time as he pushed back in. It was a different spot inside Steve that Bucky now hit with every thrust, and Steve was all the more unable to check back his moaning. He kept his eyes open though, didn’t let them close with pleasure, and looked at Bucky above him. Bucky’s hair was tangled with sweat, his cheeks flushed and eyes huge when he looked right back at Steve, who didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as beautiful. 

Finally Bucky grabbed Steve’s erection in his hand and it only took a few strokes before he came. Bucky fucked him through it and then came undone himself, leaning his forehead on Steve’s. After a few minutes Steve had gathered his senses a bit and only then noticed he’d wrapped his legs around Bucky’s hips and hadn’t let go. He didn’t really want to either. He felt boneless and spent, like he rarely did even after sex. “I’m going to need you to do this to me again sometime,” he said and Bucky, who’d dropped his head on Steve’s shoulder, as a reply only laughed and kissed his collarbone. 

Turned out, they didn’t get another chance. The next day they left for their mission to capture Arnim Zola, and although that mission was successful, they lost Bucky, and with him a part of Steve went missing. He’d realised before that there was a part of his heart that was tied to Bucky, and that part got lost when he wasn’t able to reach Bucky in time. It got buried in the snowy Alps with his friend. 

Steve was numb for days afterwards; the whole trip back to London, the debriefing, and writing the mission report. In it he was analytical, not leaving a single detail out.

He found his way to the bombed out bar where their team had been formed, where the first spark of desire towards Bucky had flashed inside him almost unnoticed. The alcohol still did nothing for him. There was nothing he could do to dull the memory of Bucky’s final moments, so much clearer than it should have been due to his enhanced memory. That was when he broke down and cried, for the first time since his mother’s death. 

When Peggy found him he was no longer numb. There was a fire burning inside him, scorching him and driving him onwards, and there was only one thing that he wanted to do. To stop HYDRA once and for all, even if it meant killing every single soldier sworn on the cause. It was the first time he didn’t feel even a bit of regret at the thought of killing his enemies. 

Steve wasn’t sure if he slept at all during the preparations for the final assault. Peggy worked tirelessly with him, coaxed him to eat, made him lie down with her for some hours, but he just stared the ceiling with her asleep on top of him. When she woke up there was an indentation on her cheek in the shape of his shirt button, and neither one of them seemed rested. 

It helped to get moving; it was easier to just concentrate on the details, to let adrenaline run through his veins. Everything went to plan as far as they could anticipate, and then they improvised. Things got cut close with the plane, but even that was managed.

Peggy’s last kiss was full of meaning; it was a reminder of her love, a promise for it to last, and a wish for him to come back. He could still feel it on his lips when he pointed the nose of the plane down, unable to see any other way out of it; for himself or the world. 


	6. Transitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole another world he never wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is rather resentful about being alive in this one.

When they asked him how he felt about being alive, he went with confused. It wasn’t his true gut reaction, because he knew that wasn’t something they expected after having gushed about how he must be relieved or even happy to be there, alive even when everything he ever knew was gone. That was why he went with confusion, talked about how the change was tremendous and that it would take a while to get used to everything. It seemed to calm everyone, it was what they’d expected, confirmed that he was what they thought he was.

And it was true to an extent, he  _ was _ confused, but if he’d been completely open, he would have said, “Cheated.” That was how he really felt. He’d made his choice, he’d been ready, and it had been peaceful, not scary, to watch the ice come closer. He had hoped to see his mother, to see Bucky again, but he didn’t get that. Death wouldn’t take him. It made him wonder the extent of the power of the serum.

SHIELD had a lot to say on that front. They’d dusted out all of his old files, and he went through rigorous testing regarding his status, both in general and possible effects of being frozen for decades. In a way it was even more like being a test subject than Project Rebirth had been, because then there had been Doctor Erskine and Peggy who both knew him as a person. This time the scientists (some of them so young they seemed almost children to him) behaved as if they were finally getting their hands on something they’d heard about all their lives, which probably wasn’t that far from truth. Only their test subject was a person, and to Steve it seemed they didn’t really think of it that way.

It wasn’t that they ignored him; on the contrary they talked to him, asked questions, told him about the results. It was that the questions were all technical, about his status and abilities and if he noticed any change from before. They didn’t ask if he was comfortable about the proceedings, or talk to him about his friends and experiences. The last part he was somewhat thankful about, as he didn’t particularly want to talk about those things, but that they didn’t ask about them made him wonder how they saw him. 

The results of the tests were revealing to say the least, and helped him to understand how the serum worked better. Science had clearly taken a leap ahead, and there was a lot of new information they could extract from his blood samples and other data. The results about healing, durability and strength didn’t really surprise him; after all they were things he’d experienced. He did make a note to himself that he needed to somehow test the limits of his abilities, because there had never been time for that in the war; he’d just thrown himself in and never found them yet. Not even when crashing into ice from above the clouds.

They told him that he seemed to age significantly slower than normal, but couldn’t say how slow exactly, which was something no one back in the forties had expected. Another thing that they told him was that he was sterile, probably due to the Vita-Rays. They mentioned it as if it was a passing curiosity, and not something with potential to completely change the outlook of his life. 

He’d never really thought about family or having children. At first he hadn’t had too many chances, not to mention he probably would have been dead by thirty anyway. Then there was the war and he hadn’t planned for future at all. Still, here was another thing he’d lost without even realising it happen, the lost potential. He wondered how many more things like that there were. 

The more he heard about the results, the more he felt he was again standing on unsteady ground, not knowing himself. Just as he’d felt right after Project Rebirth. And this time there was no one to tell him that he was still him in the ways that mattered, no one to tell him it was him that mattered, not Captain America. In the future he’d landed there’s no one at hand that knew him, that cared about Steve Rogers more than his assumed persona. 

He knew there were still people that he’d known alive, but it didn’t feel the same. Even the thought of talking to them made him feel sick, because there was so much time between them now, so much that they’d gone through that he hadn’t. They might not even remember him, and the problem was he still remembered all too well. He remembered the Commandos, and their easy camaraderie. He remembered Peggy’s voice and silky feel of her skin under his hands. He remembered Bucky and his constant presence, how he’d been everything one could imagine a person being to Steve. He remembered everything, and all of it was gone and lost.

He had lost everything, and he couldn’t tell if it was better or worse that a lot of people didn’t seem to understand. They spoke to him of duty and heroism, words that now rang false in his ears. They suggested he must be glad to be alive, to be able to reassume his mantle, and maybe that was what he should do. There was nothing left for him to live for himself, and death wouldn’t take him. Only choice seemed to be to live for others.

He remembered his mother then. She’d been a nurse for as long as her feet had carried her. It had been her true calling, not just something to do to make living. She had always gone out of her way to help, and she’d instilled the value of helping others into Steve as well. She would have approved of the idea of him living for others, he thought. But he also remembered something else she’d said. 

“Even if you choose to help others, remember that it’s not going to be enough. You must also help yourself. You must live for yourself and let helping others come from that.”

It was her advice, and it was sound advice, Steve knew it to be true. And maybe she would have been disappointed after all, because he didn’t know how to help himself. Yet he resolved to do the best he could with what he had.

He settled into the small apartment SHIELD set up for him, tried to catch up with things, found himself a gym. And in the dark of night when he couldn’t sleep he wondered. Since he had survived the plane crash, could he have survived the fall into the ravine? And if so, could he have saved Bucky in the process if he’d just let go of the train? The question plagued his mind, refusing to let go. Sometimes he thought regardless of the outcome it would have been better than his existence there in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through, and I'm far enough ahead that I'll be able to keep my posting schedule and finish this on Jan 5th.


	7. Shaking Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to build a life without a solid foundation?

He only really noticed that he was back to numbness when the whole business with Loki and aliens hit. The fire that had urged him on to take down HYDRA was gone, and he had to remind himself he’d decided to help the best he could if ever a situation arose. 

It did provide him with a sort of calm acceptance, though. Gods from other planets? A man with a flying metal suit? Another that turned into a big green rage monster? He knew he should have been less apathetic about it all, to wonder and question, but he didn’t. There was a task and he was called back to duty, even if it was monumentally different from anything he’d ever expected or agreed to.

He’d been informed right at the beginning that Peggy had been instrumental in creating SHIELD and had been its longest serving director, responsible for many policies that they still implemented. It had given him at least one stable footing, something that was if not familiar, at least tangentially related. It was why he had tentatively decided that he’d work with them, continue something Peggy had started. Agents had mentioned that she’d said something about continuing his work, but looking at the clearly massive organisation and comparing it to his team, there didn’t seem to be much in common. Not to mention that SSR and Peggy’s role in it had predated his anyway. She would have gone on to do great things had they never met; he was sure of it.

It was Peggy’s involvement that had him trust SHIELD at first, but soon things came to light that shook that trust, and with it the very feeble stability he’d tried to scrape for himself. The first hint was the Tesseract, and seeing it actually sparked anger in him. It was the source for a lot of their troubles during the war, including the weapon that had basically killed Bucky. It should never have been fished out of the sea, should have been left there and forgotten. But he wasn’t surprised that Howard Stark had found it either, and that after he’d found it, Steve knew there was no way Howard would have just left it. He was too curious about everything, to a fault in Steve’s opinion. A lot of good had come from it, but also some not that great things, he suspected.

He’d let that go when they needed to go on the mission, which was a mess, there was no other way of saying it. He knew straight away it wasn’t going to work, at least not without problems, because they were assembling the team exactly the way he hadn’t wanted his commandos assembled. They were all capable individuals, but they had no common touching ground, and to expect they’d become a coherent unit in a middle of a crisis seemed like a fool’s hope to him, and he was mostly proven right.

Then there were the exact guns HYDRA had used complete with the masks, and for a moment he felt sick, wondering what exactly SHIELD was. 

It wasn’t like the fire that had burned in him during his last days of the war, it was more that his patience was gone, and he wanted the whole affair done, no matter how. And somehow, despite the friction and barely manageable team, the attack on the helicarrier and a literal army from outer space, they did get it done. And, to Steve’s surprise, it actually felt good. 

After Red Skull had been beamed up to space, it hadn’t felt like winning, not even knowing that people would be safe after he put the plane down. He’d mostly felt empty, because despite victory, he was giving up his life, and everything that was lost stayed gone. But now, even with the losses and the mess, there was still elation in him, because he was there and it felt like it mattered. He found himself smiling, for the first time since standing on the edge of the mountain reminiscing with Bucky.

They were not a team, or at least not that good one, and he wasn’t sure if it was just a one off thing that they’d managed to perform a miracle. Maybe they’d just gotten lucky, and if there ever was a next crisis it wouldn’t end as well. In retrospect, it seemed the more likely outcome, since there were so many things that could have gone differently and they would have lost.

And yet, common sense would say that one couldn’t win a war with just handful of people, and of course he and the commandos hadn’t won the war by themselves. But they had several times performed missions that on reflection seemed like miracles, gone against HYDRA and their impossibly superior force and won. They’d done it because it had been the only choice they’d had. Maybe this non-team, the Avengers, could do the same. He didn’t know. Maybe this grasp at solid foundation was as shaky as every other he’d tried so far. But maybe it was worth trying.

Maybe he’d get past the similarities and differences to his father with Stark. Maybe he’d find out more about the two sides of Banner. Maybe he’d use the chance to get to know Barton. Maybe he’d make friends with an actual God of Thunder. And maybe he was already on the way of becoming friends with Romanoff. There were a lot more layers to her, that he could tell, and the way she seemed to scrutinize him made him a bit uneasy, but there was the fledgling trust also. Maybe, just maybe it could be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years Eve, hopefully you all have a better one than me and the stomach bug.


	8. The Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is not a place.

Steve went to see Peggy a week after the Battle of New York. She lived in a spacious apartment in DC by herself, her grand-children often coming to help her with housekeeping. She’d been told straight away that Steve had been found, before he’d even regained his consciousness, and he was glad that he didn’t have to tell her himself. She let him in, and she was changed and yet not at all. He apologized for taking so long before coming, but she brushed it off with an understanding smile. They sat for hours and talked, about SHIELD, about Peggy’s family, about things he’d missed, and somehow they didn’t make him uneasy coming from Peggy. She still knew him, and seemed to understand what to say and what not to.

He embraced her and kissed her on forehead when he was leaving, and after getting back to his hotel he threw on his running clothes and took off towards the Washington Monument. He ran around the park, not caring that people stopped to look at him when he blew past them. Running calmed him a little, but it didn’t relieve the pain in his chest, the realisation that even though she was there, in a way he already had lost Peggy. There was indeed too much time between them now.

He hadn’t expected to be able to continue where he’d left off, he wasn’t that naive, but actually seeing it still hurt. She still loved him, but it had been nearly seven decades for her, and somewhere along the way she’d stopped being in love with him. And he was glad, he wouldn’t have wanted her pining her life away, but for him it had only been a few weeks, and he was still very much in love with her, and his chance was forever lost. Furthermore, when he embraced her she now felt small and fragile, and he was conscious of the fact that he’d lose her for good very soon, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He took up a job with SHIELD, despite his doubts that had arisen during the incident with Loki. He needed to do something, settle somewhere, and Peggy agreed that SHIELD probably was his best bet, at least at first. He moved to DC because New York was difficult for him. The changes felt strange, but at the same time the familiar sights brought the pain and loss too close to surface. He’d had to turn away from walking across the bridge to Brooklyn, because there had been a shade of Bucky beside him, and it had made the whole city feel empty. They’d said he’d feel right at home soon, and he felt like laughing, because home had long since stopped being about a place, and he wasn’t sure he could find it in himself to make one for himself.

One of the first things he did was to take himself to the training ground and to start figuring out the limits of his abilities. At first they didn’t get too far, because SHIELD didn’t have the equipment to truly push him, but it was a process. He took up training with the martial arts specialists; during the war he’d gotten very basic training and then picked up skills as he went, but it had always been about survival and not formal training. Now he had time to learn things just in case, just for the sake of them. It helped to calm down his mind, to not think anything other than learning a new way for his body to move. He started sparring with Natasha when they were both back at the base. He learned to use all kinds of weapons, even if the shield was still is primary tool, and he refused to let anyone tinker with it.

At one session he casually put it to the trainer that he was interested finding out how high he could jump from without injury. 

He started going on the missions and soon got a role in the strategy part, after pointing out that they didn’t take down much larger HYDRA forces by running in and hoping they got lucky, and since intelligence back then was much less precise, most missions’ final details were decided on the spot by the team. Most of the missions with SHIELD were performed in secret, sometimes it was a whole STRIKE team, sometimes just one or two agents. 

At the end of one mission, where it was just him and Isabelle Hartley, they made it back to the safe house adrenaline still high, giddy with the success despite surprisingly stiff opposition. They contacted base and he was making a note that they needed to check their sources since there were things that should have shown on data gathered beforehand, when Hartley crowded close to him and pushed him down on one of the cots. He could have stopped her, but didn’t and just went with it when she said, “It doesn’t mean anything more than we need to celebrate.”

It made sense, feeling giddy and loose, to just let go and to do so with another person felt just right. They got out of their clothes and she pushed him back down and he let her take the lead and straddle him. She rode him hard and rough, relentless, and he held on the sheets and let it fill his head.

One time they rigged up a crane and lifted him progressively higher and higher, and he jumped down until he started to feel the strain and knew that landing from higher would mean a very probable injury. It wasn’t as high as the ravine, but thing is, even if one was injured, one could still survive. It still didn’t really answer the questions constantly on his mind.

It was a one time thing with Hartley, which he was perfectly fine with, but it wasn’t the last of that sort of encounters. It didn’t happen too often, but sometimes after missions, or on the training ground an agent would discreetly approach him. There were women and there were men, the latter a lot more hesitant, clearly never imagining that it would go any other way than Steve on top. Sometimes he wondered if there was a rumor going around that if one asked nicely enough, Captain America fucked them. He decided he didn’t particularly care even if there was. 

He was careful about it, much as he’d been during the USO tour, making boundaries for himself and sticking to them. It was never more than once with anyone, and he made sure they knew it beforehand, and he never brought anyone home. And if it seemed someone was angling for a relationship, he denied them outright. He wasn’t seeking anything deeper, felt like he wasn’t capable of it, but he liked the moments when he was with someone, how for a while he could just not think about anything but bodies and sensations.

Natasha kept trying to set him up with people, and he noted she only suggested women, even if he was actually sure she knew that he had no real preference. He didn’t ask why though, and took it more as a game. She suggested, he dodged.

One time, he wondered aloud how high he could jump from into water, and it turned out that actually high enough to reach terminal velocity, as long as he controlled the fall.

He settled into a routine; working the missions for SHIELD, making friends with the other agents, catching up on things he’d missed, visiting Peggy. And all the while he felt hollow, like he was going through motions and doing things because people expected them of him, but there was no meaning in them. No joy. 

He should have gotten better at it, should have started believing in what he did, should have made a home out of his apartment. He should have moved on, and he didn’t.

Months passed and he kept visiting Peggy, at first in her home and then the nursing home when she was unable to live by herself. The first signs of Alzheimer's had shown up soon after he’d awaken, and it was difficult watching her condition deteriorate. One day he showed up and she didn’t remember he’d come back at all, and it was like a stab to his heart. He dreaded the day he’d show up and she wouldn’t recognize him at all. When she was gone, his last tie to his life before the ice would be lost.


	9. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally found something he had to do for himself.

It was a pain like blood flow returning to a limb that had fallen asleep; excruciating and relieving at the same time. It filled his head and he only partly perceived what was happening; the STRIKE team approaching to take them prisoner. Even with a whole team against them, he maybe could have gotten away, but not with Sam and Natasha especially with her injury, and not because he himself could barely move due to the shock.

_ Bucky was alive. _

It was hard to believe, but he had to trust his own eyes, how the strange familiarity he’d felt during their fight had snapped to place when the mask had dropped. And there was another familiar feeling, as if someone had poured liquid fire into his veins, and he was ready to take down HYDRA again. To try and burn it out the best he could, even if he knew it was practically impossible to do all at once. And again the reason why he burned was the same.

Afterwards, when he woke up in the hospital, the bullet wounds and the bruising on his face throbbing with pain, the overwhelming feeling was still relief. Because in the end it had worked, Bucky had finally recognized him, had saved his life. He knew he had seen a hand reaching for him through the water when the last bit of consciousness was fading. 

And because of this, there was only one thing he could do. He was going after Bucky, even if he didn’t know where to start.

Even before he got the file from Natasha, he knew it must have been indescribably terrible for Bucky. He’d seen it begin, even if he hadn’t truly recognized or understood it back then. Now he thought back to the war, the way Bucky used to stare into distance, didn’t like doctors checking him. The shadows in Bucky’s eyes. Steve knew now he should have paid more attention, should have pressed Bucky more to talk. He just didn’t know if it would have helped. He could have told Bucky to go home instead of coming with him, but he knew it wouldn’t have worked. Not unless he would have gone as well, but that wasn’t going to happen. He himself hadn’t wanted to leave, the army wouldn’t have let him leave.

Then Bucky had fallen, and he’d thought it was the worst thing he’d ever have to experience, because what could be worse that that? Certainly he couldn’t have imagined that he’d see Bucky again, and definitely not a Bucky who wouldn’t recognize him. That more than anything told him the extent of what Bucky must have gone through, because he knew it would take something immense to erase Bucky from his head. And yet, whatever it had been, it hadn’t erased him from Bucky’s heart. The fact he was alive was a proof of that.

Even knowing all that, reading the file was difficult, in a way that wanted him to throw tables and wreck punching bags. Maybe put holes in the walls. He didn’t do any of that, since he was staying at Sam’s. Instead he went running at the Mall, lap after lap, until he was exhausted. And still everything he’d read made him feel sick.

He knew he’d struck luck that day he’d met Sam, and the following months proved it time and time again. Sam was the first person in the new century that he’d met that seemed to truly understand him, one that saw him straight away as a war veteran that had gone through horrible things and had been affected them. There wasn’t a time when Sam had to majorly change his perception of Steve, which he knew had happened with almost everyone that had gotten to know him better after he woke up.

Sam chose to give them shelter, to fight with them against HYDRA even though he was happy where he was in life. He chose to leave it all behind to help Steve bring back his friend, even if Sam wasn’t as convinced that Bucky could be saved as Steve was. Yet he worked tirelessly, looked for the clues, traveled with Steve. Often kept him grounded, helped him stay together and not lose himself in the rage and worry.

Because of all this, Steve knew Sam deserved to know everything that was at stake, what Bucky truly meant to him. It was something he’d never talked about; not to Peggy, not to SHIELD assigned psychiatrists. It was difficult because even if the world was different and he knew for a fact that Sam had absolutely no prejudices on that front, there were still patterns in him that warned him to be careful, warned him to not talk. It was still an instinct to keep it all secret. But he told Sam exactly what Bucky had been to him, and in a way it was a relief, afterwards. It was no longer a burden he had to bear alone.

It was frustrating; months and months passed with only very faint leads or no leads at all. Sometimes they managed to get close only to just miss Bucky. Clearly Bucky had been trained to disappear, his assassination record told as much, which made it curious how much out into the open he’d come during the final days HYDRA was hiding. In a way it made sense, he was not supposed to live. After all, what did HYDRA need an assassin for if they had Insight. 

Additionally, now that SHIELD was down and operating from shadows, Tony wanted the Avengers to be their own unit, a bit more organised. It took more of Steve’s time, because he wasn’t about to leave it be. He didn’t think Tony alone was a good leader for that sort of a thing, even if Steve believed he always meant well. That’s why he worked with the other Avengers, to make sense of them as a team and make sure their goals were reasonable. It meant dividing his attention, and in retrospect it was easy to say there were too many things he’d let slide. Maybe if he’d been more attentive he could have stopped Ultron from happening. Maybe not, but it was certainly something that meant they’d have to deal with the consequences years onwards. 

All the time, there was no concrete sign of Bucky, and Steve had to consider the obvious. Maybe Bucky didn’t want to come back. Actually, Steve had known Bucky for significant period of his life, through many of his formative times, and if Bucky was coming back to himself, it was a good probability that he wanted exactly that. To disappear, stay hidden. 

Steve could guess some of the things Bucky might feel. Shame. Fear. Self-hatred. Responsibility. Furthermore, he’d spoken a bit with Nat, as much as she had wanted to tell, and she’d told him that there was likely to be a conflict as well. Bucky had been with HYDRA for years, and in that kind of situation human brain would do what it needed to survive, and one of them was to start aligning with the captors, to gain acceptance. And it wasn’t something that was easy to let go, even if the conscious mind knew it was wrong. Mind would cling to the truths it had accepted for its own protection.

Maybe Bucky didn’t want Steve to find him, and even if there was a world of things Steve would have done for Bucky, this wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t just let it go, couldn’t just wait and hope, he had to see Bucky at least once. Maybe it was selfishness, maybe it was wrong, but it was something he just had to do. He was going to find Bucky. Whatever came after, he’d deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three quarters done, next is the tricky(ish) part.


	10. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one thing Steve absolutely, decidedly did not sign up for. And another thing he did.

Steve had had to adjust countless times since he’d been given the serum. From the start everything had been a lot more complicated and murky than he’d expected, and he’d expected a lot of complications. It wasn’t like life had ever been particularly easy or straightforward for him. He’d done what he’d had to, he’d adjusted, regained his footing time and time again. Through it all he’d tried to remember what was important; his principles, his ideals, and hold on to them.

He’d had to do a lot of things he’d never expected, never wanted and certainly never had agreed to before they were there right in front of him and were often inevitable. There had been many hard decisions, many compromises, some that made him lose sleep. Some of them he regretted, but in the way that he was sad they had to happen, not that he wished he’d done otherwise. Every tough choice he’d made still was one he believed he’d make all over again if he had to. It didn’t mean they were absolutely correct choices, but they were the choices that made sense for him.

It didn’t mean he didn’t have regrets of the other kind, because he did; there were times he’d ended up in a place where he had to make tough choice because of his earlier actions had set him down a path that led to it, without him realising it. When there had been a choice so well hidden he hadn’t even recognized it as one. Those were the actions he’d change given the chance. That still haunted him. There were ones from the war, what had happened on the train most prominently, from his time with the SHIELD, and with the Avengers. He’d learned to deal with them, because it was the only way one could ever move forward, burdened with past.

And now there was another choice before him, people asking him to do something he’d definitely never signed up for. They had gotten wind of Bucky, and wanted to bring him in. And some said it shouldn’t even be attempted, considering his history, that he should just be killed at sight. And that was something Steve would never stand for, he would not stand aside and watch his friend be killed. He also knew that even if Bucky was brought in, what he’d get probably wouldn’t be justice. He’d seen it too many times, people choosing a scapegoat to pin all the sins on. He understood why it happened; it was easy, it moved the responsibility onto that one person, whether it was right of not. He knew that very likely a lot of things HYDRA had done would be hung around Bucky’s neck and he would be buried and the matter would be forgotten. And HYDRA could grow again in peace.

He felt like laughing when Nat said she knew how much Bucky meant for him. Because if she did, if she truly did, then she wouldn’t have bothered asking him to stand aside. She would have known there was no way he’d do that.

It all meant that ties between his friends were broken or damaged, maybe for good, and he regretted it, but he did not regret making the choice. He’d never in his life regretted choosing Bucky, and he didn’t believe he ever would. It meant becoming a fugitive running from the authorities, but it didn’t matter. It also meant getting something he’d wanted, something he’d yearned for ever since finding out Bucky was alive.

It was tricky, because as he had expected Bucky didn’t really want them to meet, for many reasons, some of which Steve only found out much later. One of them was the feeling of responsibility, how it was his and he didn’t really want Steve mixed up in his problems. And then there was the confusion and mistrust; not wanting to rely on anyone. There was the conditioning that told Bucky Steve was an enemy, not to be trusted, and then there was something that came from deeper, the returning memories, the pure instinct that told Steve was on his side. It was difficult to sort out and it took time, but in the end it was again them. Steve and Bucky, a unit that came together.

There had been a moment on the helicarrier when Steve had been certain Bucky had recognized him, and it had been overwhelming, probably what made him relax and finally let the pain of his injuries come through. His head had been hazy, and his memories from their fight were blurry in a way that nothing else that had happened after the serum was, but that one moment, that certainty he’d felt shone like a beacon.

And yet, it was nothing compared to the moment when he finally had a confirmation, in Bucky’s own words, that indeed he remembered, and not just knew Steve as this abstract concept, but remembered details from their past. It was a relief, because it made Steve’s belief his friend could find his own footing after so much torture valid, but also because in a way he no longer was the only one with those memories.

Sometimes, when it had been the most difficult for him to just remember why he bothered to do anything, to be anything in the 21st century, the memories from past had felt both heavy and fragile. He was the only one remembering them, and if he forgot, they’d be gone. Furthermore, there were so many things where he just wasn’t sure what was memory and what was dream anymore. He knew that Bucky’s memory was bound to be imperfect, more than his own, but somehow it mattered less now. Because the memories were no longer his only connection to past. That was what mattered.

With Bucky, even though they’d taken very different routes to the future and had been separated for so long, somehow it still didn’t feel like there was too much time between the two of them as it did with all his other contemporaries. Somehow they still fit together.

His group of friends had basically split in two over the Accords and everything related, and it was just something they needed to get done. Sometimes Steve’s group worked all together, sometimes they split up; and the inevitability loomed over them every day. It would come to blows, Steve didn’t see how they could settle things without that happening, because there were things he’d be asked to compromise that he just wasn’t going to do.

It had been a tough day, moving fast while keeping alert, and Steve felt completely drained at the end of it when he and Bucky barricaded themselves into the house they were fairly sure was going to be safe until morning. They let the bags drop and had supper, not talking about anything beyond bare necessities. It was different with Bucky these days, and even if Steve had expected it, it still was a lot to get used to. In some ways Bucky was just like before, there were moments that could have happened in the forties, but in other ways he was a complete stranger, and Steve knew he’d never be as he used to be. Steve would just have to get to know this new man.

Sometimes Steve felt guilty, because surely being disappointed was selfish, he had come through the decades pretty much unscathed especially compared to Bucky. He had no right to be disappointed. And yet, there were moments when they were together and it could have been a stranger by his side and his heart ached. At the same time, there wasn’t a moment he wasn’t grateful that they were together, but even that was laced with guilt. Again because of everything that Bucky had gone through to be there. Sometimes, in the dark of night Steve wondered if Bucky thought it would have been better to die at the fall. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he could have handled it if the answer was affirmative.

They were settling down after eating, and Steve was thinking about turning in when he felt Bucky’s eyes on him. These days Bucky watched him almost constantly if they were somewhere safe (while on the move they covered each other, keeping an eye on the surroundings, and that truly was like no time had passed at all), looking at Steve as if he tried to piece together a puzzle. And in a way he probably was. Bucky didn’t seem keen to talk about it though, and Steve just let it happen, let Bucky look at him and try to find out whatever he was looking for. He had no secrets to keep from Bucky.

This time the look was different; assessing, and there was something in it that reminded Steve of the Winter Soldier, of Bucky before he remembered his past. And when Bucky got up to his feet he moved with the fluid grace Steve didn’t remember from the war, economic with no wasted energy. Steve had no idea what Bucky had in mind when he strode closer but he kept still. He trusted Bucky with everything. 

Bucky stopped mere inches from him and raised his hand but stopped short of touching Steve. There was a furrow between his brows that Steve’s hands itched to smooth out, but he kept completely still, even if he didn’t quite manage relaxed, and just looked Bucky in the eyes. Still, it was completely unexpected when Bucky said, “I remember Paris.”

There it was, three words and Steve’s breath came short. He didn’t even need to ask what particular memory about Paris it was, he knew. That single night in Paris, one of the few moments in his life that he had been perfectly happy. He felt there was something he needed to say, and he was aware that it was important to say the right thing, but then Bucky wrapped his fingers at the hem of Steve’s shirt and stopped there, waiting. Steve didn’t know how it would go, how much Bucky remembered, and how much he understood of his memories. He’d told Steve he still had difficulty sometimes to sort out his emotions and memories, to give them context. And yet, there was only one answer, the only answer he’d ever had for Bucky. He kept looking at Bucky and said, clear and unwavering, “Yes.”

It was the only encouragement Bucky needed, and he stripped the shirt off Steve in one move and then set to work on his jeans. It happened so fast Steve nearly stumbled stepping out of his shoes, jeans and underwear pulled down. Bucky stripped himself as methodically, there was nothing sensual in it, or even the rush of need, just purpose. All naked, Steve rifled through his bag. He’d learned about modern lube, not that he had some with him, but he did have vaseline since his uniform sometimes chafed, no matter how meticulously it had been made to fit him. It would serve them just as fine as it had seventy years earlier.

Bucky grabbed his arm, still more about purpose, closer to fighting, sparring rather than sex, but Steve’s body was responding anyway. It was enough, it seemed, just to have the two of them naked, and he suddenly craved closeness, touching, now that it seemed like he could actually have it. He dropped the jar on Bucky’s hand and used the distraction to put his hands on Bucky, which he had avoided doing so far. There were scars he didn’t remember, and the whole mess at Bucky’s left shoulder that Steve completely avoided touching since he had no idea how Bucky would react. He just pressed his palms on Bucky’s back, his sides and was gratified to find Bucky leaning back to the touch. 

Bucky turned Steve around and pushed him against the old couch, and then pushed his slicked fingers in him. It was faster than ideal and the stretch was quite a lot to take since he’d actually only done this in the forties, but Steve didn’t want to slow down. He pushed against Bucky’s hand and had barely adjusted when Bucky pulled his fingers away and pushed inside him. Breath left Steve’s body in a rush as he was pushed further down against the couch, Bucky’s left hand cool but warming up between his shoulder blades, his right hand hot on Steve’s hip. 

Bucky set a fast pace and honestly it hurt in the beginning, Steve trying to relax under him. And yet, it was better than anything he had felt for decades. He relished every tinge of flesh, every thrust that jarred him, because all of it screamed at him that he was alive, in a way that he hadn’t quite felt after waking up. He leaned on the couch, concentrated on the way Bucky moved behind him, and didn’t bother checking the moans that welled out from inside him. There was a hazy instinct that said it would be good for Bucky to hear he enjoyed it. Because he did. The initial pain was gone after a while, and then there was just pleasure and touch. Bucky’s hands on him, his hard length inside him, filling him just like Steve remembered. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted, could have been minutes or hours, as it felt both too long and too short a time, but he came hard, literally seeing stars, all of his muscles turning liquid. Bucky collapsed on top of him, and for a while they just lay there panting and Steve relished the closeness. Bucky pulled away too soon but before he got far, Steve, feeling like it wouldn’t go wrong now, grabbed his wrist and pulled him back close, and they collapsed onto the sofa, Bucky half on top of Steve. It was dusty and they probably should have cleaned themselves but Steve didn’t care, he just wanted to hold onto the moment a while longer.

After a while he realised Bucky was asleep, really and truly asleep, breathing slow and shallow. Steve wrapped his arms a bit tighter around Bucky and stayed awake, guarding Bucky’s sleep that was deeper he’d seen since he’d found Bucky.

In the morning they set out again and it wasn’t like before the ice, but Steve believed it would be okay, he would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When planning for this, I pondered where to diverge from the canon, would it be before Civil War, since there isn't enough plot information of it to be accurate. On the other hand, I'd gone with the theme, "Steve is in over his head totally didn't sign up for things", and the implication from the trailer that people expect Steve to stand aside while they extra judiciously execute Bucky was too good to pass.
> 
> And since this whole thing is more about the themes and concept than plot (which deliberately follows the most common throughline), meant I could get away with being vague about the resolution. So in between this and next chapter they somehow sort the thing in a way that is (probably) less tragic than the actual canon will be. 
> 
> Maybe they just beat the hell out of each other and afterwards pat each other on the backs and go have beers together and talk. Something like that. Maybe Thor descends from Asgard to beat some sense into all of them and then they again go have drinks and talk.


	11. Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery isn't linear.

It was a strange summer after everything quieted down. There were a lot of things that would never be quite the same, and some friendships would take time to repair, for the trust to become as strong as it had been. But, the main thing was, Steve hadn’t actually, permanently lost any friends. He’d gained a few new ones, and as he looked into future, he felt more hopeful than he remembered in a long time.

They went back to Brooklyn, which wasn’t like the city in his memories, but it no longer haunted him like it had back when he’d first woken up from the ice. Bucky came to live with him and that was another thing Steve had never thought he’d have to learn to do all over again. In their youth and during the war they’d always fit together, found a way to live in each other’s orbits in no time at all, even with the changes that took place after they’d been separated when Bucky left for war.

Steve had maybe though it would be easier than it actually turned out to be. When they were on the run, there was always purpose, always the stress, and there was no space for much else. Now that they had time to just be, no need to go anywhere, Steve realised that what he’d seen had been this new Bucky on mission mode. It turned out that it was kind of the only way Bucky knew how to be, and the peace and quiet unnerved him.

Still, Steve wasn’t too worried about it, he hadn’t expected everything go smoothly from the start, and was sure that after some time adjusting Bucky would settle in. He tried to figure out their lives, tried to create patterns to bring regularity to it. He tried new kinds of food, all of which Bucky ate but Steve wasn’t sure if he really cared if it was something new or familiar. Steve went running in the mornings. He bought paints and canvasses and started trying to figure out how he used to look at things to bring them to life with his brushes. Little bits of the city, both as he remembered it and as he saw it now, were propped against the walls of his studio. It took him a while to figure out how the light had been different in the past.

He definitely enjoyed not fighting with his friends.

The fall came and Steve began to worry more. Bucky kept retreating to solitude more rather than less, and they didn’t talk almost at all, only what was necessary. It was hard to tell, but he thought Bucky didn’t sleep that much either. 

He knew Bucky needed help, except professional help wasn’t even a question. Bucky tolerated the presence of Steve’s friends, but when they came over he stayed in his room even more than he did when it was just the two of them, and didn’t talk to them at all. Steve read a lot of books on psychology that Sam recommended him, and he knew Bucky read them too. He didn’t know if it was a good idea, but there was no way of stopping it. The books all agreed that recovery wasn’t linear, that there were bound to be setbacks and that sometimes progress was so slow that it was difficult to notice, or it happened in ways that it was hard to see. Steve tried to find optimism in the advice, but it was hard to not lose faith, impossible to not worry.

Worry he did, and he knew it showed in his paintings. The airy cityscapes gave way to scenes of forests and mountains, and not the kind he remembered from animated movies, but dark and oppressive, with grey skies and rain. He tried to keep to his routine, tried to coax Bucky out of his room to eat with him, to watch something on tv, to come run with him. The last one didn’t work at all, but sometimes he noticed Bucky coming in, usually through window rather than the door, clearly exhausted. Still, he kept trying, for Bucky but also for himself; he knew it would have been all too easy to let the melancholy affect him more than it already did, to get lost into his paintings or books and not even try to make contact with other people. He made a point of keeping in touch with his friends, mostly Sam and Nat. 

They’d gone back to not touching at all with Bucky, and Steve had no idea what it meant.

Winter came and it felt like it settled into Steve’s bones, even though they had a perfectly functioning central heating and his increased metabolism should have meant it was nearly impossible for him to get cold. It had been true when he was in the war, which had been a blessing during both the winters, but not anymore. Even thick sweaters didn’t seem to help. 

Winter crept into his paintings as well; the forests and mountains became snowy, and sometimes there were streaks of blue, too bright to occur naturally, and just looking at it made Steve taste the electricity in the air. He couldn’t stop painting though. There were other scenes too, more abstract, of blocks of blue and white, sometimes metallic grey.

There was one night when Bucky had a nightmare that he couldn’t awaken from before Steve was in his room, and he pulled a knife on Steve. No one got hurt, but after it Bucky started staying away more. Sometimes days at a time. And every absence made Steve half fear it would be for good, but every time Bucky appeared again, tired and cold, but marginally more at ease with himself, with Steve.

They still kept the distance, and as much as Steve tried not to think about it, it was difficult. He’d noticed it before, it was easier to never touch at all than getting used to physical distance afterwards. After the war there had been only that one time with Bucky, in the safe house when they were on the run, but it had brought all the memories of how their bodies fit together back to the surface. Now Steve couldn’t stop craving touch, but he sat on the urge, kept his distance since Bucky did so as well.

One night he woke up due to the cold and went to make something hot to drink, when he realised Bucky was back from his latest trek to wherever he went when he was gone. He was in Steve’s studio standing in the middle of the room, staring at the half finished painting on the easel. Steve knew what it was; a mess of metal among broken ice, but Bucky couldn’t possibly see it, since he hadn’t put lights on in the room. Steve stopped at the threshold, not sure if he should cross it. Not knowing what to say.

The winter felt like it lasted forever, but finally came a day when the sun was warm on Steve’s face instead of just an orb of pale cold light. The wind was gentler, and his coat felt too heavy when he made his way back home from the grocery store. Back inside, after shedding his outer garments and putting everything away, he still felt cold.

Steve woke up in the middle of the night, and at first he didn’t know why, but then he heard Bucky moving around, and realised it had probably been the door he’d heard in his dream. It was unusual, because Bucky tended to move completely without making a sound, even at home, and especially at night he came and went through windows and the balcony door, because they were quiet unlike the front door. Steve sat up, wondering what had brought the change, listening to the sounds of Bucky moving in the kitchen, clearly making a snack for himself. That was definitely a good sign, that he bothered to feed himself without Steve’s prodding.

After a while the light went out, but Bucky still didn’t bother being quiet when he went to bathroom. And then, encouraged by Bucky’s behavior, when he was going past Steve’s door, Steve called out, and Bucky stopped to look in. Steve turned the covers on the other side of the bed.

“Come here?” he said, very careful about making it a question, not a command.

Bucky hesitated only a moment before coming in. Steve burrowed under the covers while Bucky took off his boots, jeans and hoodie, leaving only his boxers and undershirt, which was a lot less than Steve had taken up sleeping in. Clearly Bucky didn’t feel as cold as he did. It took a while for them to settle, facing each other but not touching, and after that Steve slept better than he had in ages. 

Steve woke up in the morning facing the other way, but Bucky’s left arm heavy over his waist, breath warming Steve’s neck. His longsleeved shirt and sweatpants suddenly felt too hot, and he wanted to stay like that forever.

After a while he had to get up and go to bathroom, and when he came back the bed was empty, but there was the smell of coffee in the air. He dressed up, leaving the thick sweaters in the closet and grabbing only a t-shirt. On the way to kitchen he paused at the door to his studio, and went in. The painting he’d found Bucky looking at was still on the easel, but it was now finished. He’d painted the finishing details days earlier, but hadn’t felt like beginning anything new. It was less abstract than the others depicting the icy wastes of the arctic, the were ice blocks and scattered broken metal, all illuminated by the cold light of the spring sun of the north. 

Bucky came in, still not bothering to conceal his steps, put a cup of coffee in Steve’s hand and then leaned his chin on Steve’s shoulder, right hand at the small of Steve’s back. Together they looked at the painting.

“I think you need a more cheerful subject matter,” Bucky finally said.

It truly felt like spring with the morning sun lighting up the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was funny because it's actually not at all like I envisioned it when planning this. It serves the same purpose for the characters, but what happens just came to me when I began writing it.
> 
> One more to go...


	12. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the non-special days finally were good days, and the good days were wonderful.

When they were young they used to spend hot days on the fire escape of Steve’s building. Now the city was different, they lived in a modernised building and they had an actual balcony. They still found themselves doing what they’d done nine decades earlier; just spent time sitting there and doing nothing, not even talking that much, just enjoying the sun and being together. Although now their drinks were always cold and something other than water every day instead of just when they had money. Perks of the future.

It wasn’t all the same though; Steve was no longer sickly, and his new frame had come with a calm that sat better with him now than it would have before the serum. It also had come with a weight of responsibility that he’d never really let go, probably never could, at least not wholly. It had come with worry and sadness also, and it all meant that in a way before the serum, even if he had been objectively less capable, he still had perhaps believed he could achieve more. Sometimes he missed it.

Bucky had changed as much, his still long hair pulled back, the left arm glinting in the sun. He wasn’t quite as thin and he slept better than he had, but there was still a marked difference in his eyes compared to the man who left for war. There always would be. Steve loved him all the same.

It had finally gotten easier after a very long and very difficult year, but it was still true that recovery wasn’t linear. There were bad days, bad weeks, among the good ones, and sometimes they felt harsher and more unfair, but it was only because those times weren’t their constant state anymore. Now the bad days were bookended by normal days, days that weren’t special in and on itself. Yet, every non-special day was a good day in Steve’s book, because there they were, living their lives with Bucky, and nothing happened; there were no crises, no emergencies, nothing. Just quiet life. Sometimes he even managed to believe he deserved it.

Then, every once in a while there were days that were special, wonderful.

There was that spring day, when Steve woke up and he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know what had caused the change, wasn’t sure that Bucky did either, but the change was sudden. That day Bucky seemed to suddenly become comfortable with casual touching again. Leaning on Steve, bumping knees while sitting on the couch, hands touching while handing things to each other. And if Steve noticed it came with an effort, that it was less casual than an outsider might have though, he never breathed a word about it.

There were setbacks of course, days when Bucky would flinch at the smallest contact, nights when he had to retreat to his own room and bed, but it never lasted. Bucky before the war had been all about touching, sometimes almost aggressive about it, and now there were hints of it again. It wasn’t as sure and self-confident, but clearly he was craving contact and more and more believed he could have it. Steve really didn’t mind. It was like cold water after a too hot day to be able to touch Bucky; it was relieving and invigorating, calming and cleansing.

It was a testament of how far they’d come when even on bad days, when he couldn’t shake the past, Bucky started letting Steve touch him, put his hands on his skin, pull him in an embrace. When he would come back to lie down next to Steve even after a nightmare. He finally started to believe he wasn’t going to slip, wasn’t going to accidentally hurt Steve. Just getting back to not having to be careful about not touching worked wonders for both of them, and added a dimension of communication on the days when speaking the words was difficult. They both had those, Bucky still more than Steve, but he was making strides to even it out.

When he stopped withdrawing from company, Bucky started baking. It surprised Steve at first; Bucky of course knew how to cook, they’d both had to learn before the war, but it had never been something he did for any other reason than that it needed to be done. Not to mention cooking back then was quite a different affair from modern cooking in a lot of ways. Not all of them, some things were still the same. From the start Steve could tell the activity of baking seemed to be calming to Bucky, and he started bringing cookbooks home and finding cooking channels on tv. After a while he determined the calming effect was probably the combination of the facts that baking was pretty much as far from what HYDRA made Bucky do as anything and that the process of measuring and mixing required concentration and precision, which meant Bucky could still use the skills he had, only in a new way.

One evening after Steve came back from seeing Tony, taking the tentative steps to redefine their friendship, he found the kitchen counters full of different kinds of muffins and cupcakes, salty and sweet. Bucky had tested recipes, and they took plates and coffee mugs to the balcony. That night was the first time Steve heard Bucky laugh since the war, and right that moment he felt like he had everything he needed in life.

In retrospect Steve thought it was a little bit funny how when casual touching came back, he kind of forgot to want any other kind of touching. Maybe it was a defensive reaction, a safeguard; him unconsciously trying to accept what he had and not hope for more in case there never would be anything else. And maybe if he had taken a moment to think about it, he wouldn’t have known whether there ever would be more or if what they had then was it, the final state in their relationship. 

If it had been that, Steve would have taken it and been happy, because it was more than he had ever expected getting. Everything ever since Bucky dragged him out of the Potomac and he had the first concrete piece of evidence his friend had retained at least a part of himself was more. It just seemed the world had decided to give him everything he couldn’t even have dared wanting.

It was an early fall day, one of the first cool days, and Steve was watching a documentary on the Moon landing when Bucky came in. He was apparently out of energy and just flopped down on the couch, half on top of Steve, head on his shoulder. For a while they stayed there, Steve still watching, Bucky clearly not paying attention, and it was more a distracted reflex rather than decision that Steve’s fingers ended up combing through Bucky’s hair. He only realised he was doing it when Bucky made a contented sound that was muffled against his shoulder. 

Steve meant to keep going, but Bucky raised his head and turned Steve’s face towards him, metal fingers cool at his jaw. The kiss was feather-light at first and stayed easy and slow. They hadn’t kissed since the war. They had never kissed like this at all; when the point was just to kiss each other. Before it had always been a means to relieve passion, not a goal for itself. 

There on the couch, Bucky’s lips on his, letting his tongue explore Bucky’s mouth, feeling lazy and warm, it suddenly hit Steve how different their lives now were, and what it meant that they lived in what still felt like the future. What it meant in context of the kind of life they could now have, when they could just kiss each other and it didn’t have to be a secret from everyone.

Slowly and surely they staked out that life for themselves, learning what it meant to finally truly surrender to each other, to have every bit of love they had to spare. It meant being able to be honest about the feelings they had, not having to hide them anymore from each other. And it meant finding the physical love again, this time in a more slow and exploring manner than the frenzy they’d felt during the war, when it was always in a hurry, always a secret. 

It didn’t mean it was less passionate, just different, more varied, and they set out to find everything that made them tick about each other like they never had dared before. It resulted in long drawn out nights in the bed, when they only fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. There were frenzied middays in the kitchen, when neither one even considered finding anything softer than the dining table that luckily was sturdy enough for Steve to brace against when Bucky pushed inside him. There were mornings when Bucky, still slow and pliant with sleep, communicated his urgency by wrapping his legs around Steve’s hips and took him in easily as anything.

There were moments of perfect happiness, strung out like pearls among other days, mostly good and sometimes bad, all worth living because they were together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it got posted later than usual, but I managed to finish it on schedule. *pats self on the back*
> 
> It ends on quite a sappy note but there is enough "everything is awful" in their lives that they deserve to get something happy.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, kudosing and commenting! If you have a moment, drop me a line maybe, I'd love to hear your thoughts. And if there are questions or want me to elaborate on something, I'll be happy to answer either here or on [tumblr](http://stellahibernis.tumblr.com/post/135977238742/what-you-will).


End file.
